Hot Like August
by boysinperil
Summary: Written for hoodie time's summer prompt: It's not summer. It's early February and the snow's knee-deep. Little Dean's got a fever and Sammy's worried, but John's not. Dean's a tough kid. He'll be fine. At least, that's what he thinks - until Dean starts talking about the summer weather and how he wants to go out and play. Then he starts getting a little worried.


John doesn't have time for this, he really doesn't. Thank god that, at eight, Sam's finally getting old enough to take care of himself and his brother, because taking out this shapeshifter has been a particularly difficult hunt, and John just isn't able to deal with it and Dean. Not that Dean usually needs taking care of, but even a tough kid like him can get knocked down by a viral infection. He should probably be in the hospital, but that's another thing John doesn't have time for, nor the money. He's got some antibiotics and fever-reducer, and that will have to be good.

Besides, it's freezing outside, and not much warmer inside this by-the-week motel on the seedier side of Madison. There's at least a foot of snow in the parking lot, and isn't that a bitch to drive through, and ice is forming up on the inside of the windows. No matter how helpful Dean would normally be, outside is no place for him right now.

"Dad?" Sam is hovering, handing John a beer and a sandwich. John's whole body aches, but he can't do anything else until he's gotten a night of sleep and some research. He hopes Bobby is still awake.

"What is it, kiddo?" John sighs, sure it will be something about school, something else he can't afford, or can't take the time for.

"Uh, Dean, he's really hot, dad."

"D'you give him his meds like I told you?"

"Yeah, like, an hour ago, and his temp-tempature is getting higher anywways."

John sets aside the sandwich and beer - well, after a bite, and a swallow that downs half the bottle – and hefts himself back to his feet. "Let's go take a peek."

Sam isn't kidding. Dean's hot as a furnace, and starting to toss and turn in his sleep. He quiets a bit as John lays a beer-cooled hand on his forehead, and his eyes open up, glassy and too-bright.

"Hey, dad, hey!" The chipper tone – when the hell is Dean _chipper? _– is jarring with Dean's rough voice; he's just starting to deepen in pitch but he shouldn't be this low for another 2 years, for Christ's sake. It makes John's throat hurt just to hear it. "Caught that shapeshifter yet?"

"Not yet, Deano, but we're getting there. How you feeling?" John is considering options to cool Dean off as he half-listens to him tell him about how he's fine and he'll be up and ready to go catch that monster by tomorrow morning and wow Dad's hands are cold. Dean beats him to it, complaining about the heat and why didn't they get a hotel with air conditioning and trying to pull off his pajamas with weak hands.

"Hey, Sammy, why don't you go start a shower for your brother, hmm? Just barely warm, okay?" While Sam gets that going, Dean struggles to his feet, still talking about something – baseball, maybe? – and collapses the minute he gets upright. John grabs him just before he hits the ground, but he doesn't pick him up – _m'not a baby, dad_ – he just gets him upright and keeps a steadying hand on his shoulder.

Dean's exhausted, but cooler, after just 15 minutes under the spray. Sam has re-made the bed with fresh sheets, without being asked, while John kept watch, and they get Dean back into bed, more meds in his system, and a cool cloth over his eyes. Together, they collapse in the living room. John picks up his abandoned sandwich, tears it in half, and gives half to Sam. "Good job in there, Sammy. Get some rest, and I'll keep an ear out for him." Sam wolfs it down and is asleep within minutes.

John wakes instantly, hand on his gun. He's too seasoned a hunter to startle, but he's alert and quietly on his feet within seconds, checking out the room and trying to figure out what woke him. Sam is still sleeping, tangled in the blankets he pulled off the back of the couch. Everything is fine there. John moves quickly to the bedroom, slightly more relaxed and sure Dean coughed or something.

Dean's not in the bed.

Or the bathroom.

Or the pathetic excuse for a kitchenette.

There's no sulfur, no smoke, no anything. No salt lines have been broken. There's just no Dean, not even the residual warmth of him; the sheets are cool where he had been sleeping.

"Sam!" John shakes him awake, not roughly but definitely urgent. It's a testament to Sam's training that he's awake in seconds, eyes wide but mouth closed. "Have you heard or seen your brother?"

"Nuh-uh." Sam's eyes get even wider, if possible.

"Get up, come on." John's already pulling his boots on and Sam's almost as fast; both were sleeping in their clothes, so they're out the door in minutes. It's snowing again, of course, and John finds himself grateful for it – he can see that Dean's been out here. It's been a while; the tracks are starting to fill in. Not so much he can't tell Dean's barefoot, though.

Of icourse/i they don't stop at the Impala, that would be too easy. Nor to the office, or the candy machine, or any place a boy could be expected to go. They head out, behind the hotel, past a bunch of boarded up or closed businesses.

"He's going to school, dad," Sam says. And he's right, that's where they find him, huddled at the top of the jungle gym on the playground.

"Dean. What are you doing, son? Get down here." John's doing his level best to stay calm, but he's cold and tired and he got the shit scared out of him so Dean could go and play at 3 am. Boy'll be lucky if he doesn't end up doing sprints for a month after this stunt.

"Dad, hi. You and Sammy gonna play with me? No one else is here. I don't know why they're not here." Dean sounds so sad and confused, it would break John's heart if he weren't about to kill him.

"They're not here because it's three o'clock in the damned morning, Dean, not to mention snowing like a bitch. Now get down here. Don't make me ask you a third time."

"No way. It's warm like August out here, dad. Can't we just toss the ball around a little bit, just the three of us? Come on, dad, please?"

John is suddenly even colder. "Sammy," he says quietly, "you climb up there and see if you can't help get your brother down, okay? I'll stay down here so I can catch him just in case." Again, Sam shows he can be a trooper and just nods in agreement. He's half way up the jungle gym before John can get under Dean – kid's fast. And smart, too, since he just starts right in on his brother like they had drilled this.

"C'mon, Dean," Sam says, once he's sitting on the bar across from him. "Come down with me, and we can play catch for a while before we go in and get some hot chocolate. You're shivering."

"Don't want hot chocolate, dummy. It's ihot/i out here. Want ice cream."

"Fine, then. Ice cream. But you gotta get down before we can get it, I'm not bringing you no ice cream up here."

Dean is silent for so long Sam & John start to worry he's going to fall asleep and come crashing off the bars. Just as Sam's about to poke him, he says, "Okay. Ice cream would be so good, Sammy. My throat hurts, like, a lot."

"I know, Dean."

"And m'really tired, Sammy. What are you doing out here in the dark anyway?" Dean is suddenly a little more aware of his surroundings, climbing down slowly, John silent but ready to move like lightning if he slips on the snowy bars. Sam follows him, step by step.

"I'm helping you get off the monkey bars, you big jerk." John catches Dean the minute he makes it in reach, Sam dropping lightly next to him. Dean's way hotter than you'd expect of someone who's been sitting out in the damned snow in his bare feet and pajamas for an hour. Too hot. His eyes are confused and tired - "Hey again, dad. Gonna play ball now?" – and then they roll back in his head.

Looks like John'll just have to make time for the ER visit after all.


End file.
